


ghostlike

by cedarmoons



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, F/M, Non-Explicit Sex, dubcon elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 03:41:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7151636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedarmoons/pseuds/cedarmoons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is enough. Isn’t it?</p><p>(<em>Yes,</em> some distant part of her thinks. <em>Yes, of course it is.</em>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	ghostlike

**Author's Note:**

> so I decided to try out a new style and this came out kind of trippy? if you are utterly confused I left an explanation at the end of it. pls note that this inquisitor drank from the well of sorrows, so there are some dubcon elements at play here.

She hums as she dances in the empty halls. Skyhold is beautiful; made of white marble and stained glass which paints a kaleidoscope of colors across the floor. The crystal floor is warm under her bare feet, though her breath mists in front of her. Her dance is blurred at the edges, but that’s only because she’s focusing on her steps—one foot in front of the other, lift the left arm _now_ , close her eyes and—

A pair of warm arms wrap around her. “Vhenan,” he says, hot breath washing over the column of her throat. His hands are warm and soft on her waist, holding her with such gentleness. She takes a moment to adjust her dance, and then they are sweeping across the main hall. Her dress glitters like woven starlight, midnight blue torso melting into white hem, and he is dressed in black to match her.

“Solas,” she sighs. He twirls her, and the sky darkens outside, bathing them in moonlight. Solas starts to hum a song for her, a beautiful little melody that his voice does not do justice. They dance until they’re both breathless, until they’re both smiling at each other.

He looks happy, tonight. Good.

Wait—no. He is always happy.

Isn’t he?

Perhaps. No… no, he is always happy.

Yes.

 _(He is happy_ , some distant part of her mind whispers. _He is so happy when he is with you. Can you not see it?)_

Her sudden doubt is reassured; her thoughts melt away as he touches her face, as he dips her and presses his forehead against hers. He helps her up and bows over her outstretched hand, turning her palm and pressing a tender, chaste kiss to the inside of her wrist. His eyes are bright in the twilight. “Vhenan,” he greets, straightening. “It is good to see you again.”

Again?

No, she misheard him, of course. He’s always with her. Silly.

She replies with a kiss; rolling onto her tiptoes, and cupping the back of his head, and closing her eyes as his quickened breaths mix with her own. For an instant, she thinks she tastes blood in the kiss—but no, he tastes like mint and smells like woodsmoke, as always. Silly of her, mixing blood and mint. Silly.

“I missed you,” she breathes, tracing his cheekbones. Solas leans into her touch, eyes fluttering closed, his grip on her waist tightening. He sways toward her, offering his mouth, which she takes eagerly. She kisses him until desire curls in her gut, slow but all-encompassing, blossoming into an ache that surprises her.

“Come with me,” she whispers, taking one of his bare hands and tugging him toward the door to her chambers. They’re not in the Great Hall anymore, but that detail doesn’t concern her, not when Solas is standing before her, flushed and kiss-swollen and soso beautiful.

He swallows, looks stricken for a heartbeat before he kisses her forehead. “Are you certain?” he asks. She laughs.

“Do you need to ask?” she says, but his neutral expression crashes into some mixture of guilt and horror and despair. He takes her face in his hands, watching her for a very long time, searching for something. She stays still, but her eyebrow quirks after several long moments. “I am _very_ certain. Satisfied?”

“I will always ask,” he says, voice hoarse. “I—always.”

“Well then let me tell you,” she says, taking his wrists in hand and brushing her thumbs up the back of his hands, “that the answer will _always_ be yes.” After a moment, she says, softly, “You don’t want to. That’s okay.”

“It is not a matter of want.” He pauses, closing his eyes, swallowing visibly. “It is a matter of should. I should not—not when you—” He stops, shakes his head.

Some part of her wants to press him. Some part of her wants him to finish _not when you_ , wants him to tell her what he meant. But instead she settles his hands on her waist, and resumes the song he had hummed in the Great Hall. They dance in the hall outside her bedroom, between mosaics of dragons and wolves with six watchful eyes, until she tires, and they ready for bed.

It is after their bath that he makes a decision. He helps her braid her hair, and when she climbs into the bed, he pulls her into his lap. He does nothing but wrap his arms around her, and press his ear over her heart, listening to its steady beat.

He is trembling.

“Sa’lath,” she calls, and his breath hitches. He lifts his head, meeting her gaze full on, eyes pale in the dawnlight. She kisses him, and he lays on his back, straining toward wherever her hands choose to roam.

He does so love to be touched. She murmurs things to him, assurances and endearments. Sometimes she thinks she sees tears, and stops, only to discover that he is grinning and jubilant, to see that his eyes aren’t even red-rimmed.

“Please don’t stop,” he says, kissing her so sweetly. “Not unless you wish to.”

“I don’t want to stop,” she assures him. Some of the tightness around his eyes softens. His kisses become hungrier, his touches more fervent. It ignites the embers smoldering within her body, stokes her desire to something much hotter.

“Love,” she gasps, as they move together, and in the back of her mind she hears _vhenan_ , ragged and full of some strange grief. Her nails rake down his chest and leave red marks that make him hiss. Dawnlight turns to afternoon, to twilight, to moonlight and back again.

His heat seeps into her bones, languid, sealing the spaces where muscle and soul are previously disconnected. Everywhere, everywhere, everywhere is—

_Solas —_

_Solas —_

_Solas._

He holds her, in the sated aftermath, and shakes in her arms. She hums an old lullaby to him, her hands drifting across his back in soothing strokes; the words are long forgotten, but the tune is not. She hums until he drags in a long, shuddering breath, and his iron-tight fingers around her loosen somewhat.

( _Vhenan_ , she hears. That voice, that tenderness, she thinks it might be real. _Vhenan_.)

All is well again. Solas is happy again. Good.

She leaves him in bed, and goes to one of the empty rooms, a rotunda. It has a window that overlooks the lush garden and lets in a blinding amount of sunlight, and several paints and canvasses. She takes up a brush, and a blank canvas, and gets to work.

The canvas is mostly full of a terribly-painted rose when a pair of arms wrap around her. “You are improving,” he says, resting his chin on her shoulder, watching as she drags the redredred paint across the white. It looks like a smear of blood, like a burning sky, until she blinks and realizes that, no, she’s just painted a rose petal.

Skies don’t burn, anyway—why would she have such a thought? Silly.

Solas kisses the curve of her throat, and guides her through developing the painting; adding darker lines to distinguish the petals, splashing white to change the lighting, layering the paint to give the canvas extra texture.

When it is over, she sets the canvas aside to dry, alongside the others. There are so many, now, she will have to start hanging some of the better ones up. “And the ones you do not like?” Solas asks, taking her hands in his and beginning a new dance.

“We can burn them,” she says. He laughs, and the sound of it makes her grin. It feels like it has been too long since he laughed. “I love you,” she says, pressing her ear against his heart. Solas stills, then continues swaying, his fingers tight around hers. The sunlight is so bright against the backs of her eyelids.

Just as soon as she thinks it, a cloud intercepts the sun, and the room darkens slightly. “I know,” Solas says, and kisses the crown of her head. “And you know I love you. Desperately so.”

She hums her agreement. He whispers  _my love_ into her hair, and she grins into his tunic. _Love_.

She loves that word, _love._

She whispers it to him that night, when she is perched atop him and her nightgown is sliding down one shoulder, and he presses that love tenfold into her skin. She cannot tell where she ends and he begins, when he calls her his light, his heart, his soul. It is almost frightening, but she is safe in his arms, she is she is she is.

Isn’t she?

 _Wait_ , she says—thinks she says—wants to say. But her tongue is thick and dry in her mouth, and she need not say anything when he is with her. It is enough. Their arms are warm around each other and his nose is tucked against her temple, breathing her in.

It is enough.

                  It is enough.

                                     It is enough.

Isn’t it?

( _Yes_ , some distant part of her thinks. _Yes, of course it is._ )

**Author's Note:**

> SO, MY REASONING: Quizzie drank from the Well, and Solas (ab)used his connection w/ Mythal to send her into uthenera, so she would not be a threat while he was off making Bad Choices™. When he is done making Bad Choices™ for the day he chills out with her during the night, and she doesn't know a thing, because she's not a dreamer. 
> 
> What a dick move, Solas. 
> 
> Hope you all liked it! :)


End file.
